Page 19 of The Falcon Laird
She nodded. The monk was English, with the round tonsure of the Roman Church rather than the Celtic that was still practiced in some parts of Scotland. She remembered that Sweetheart Abbey was in southern Galloway. Many religious houses in Scotland were filled with English priests now, just as many Scottish castles were garrisoned with English soldiers.
Sweetheart was just a few days’ ride from Kilglassie. From her daughter. She closed her eyes in relief and sent up a prayer of thanks.
The men who had rescued her from Carlisle—how many days ago, she wondered—were surely Scottish knights loyal to the Scottish cause. No Englishmen would have removed her from that foul cage to bring her to a place of healing and safety. The older knight had spoken Scots English. But the younger knight she was sure was English, yet he had helped her.
Tall and golden-haired, the knight she had once mistaken for Archangel Michael had spoken a mix of English and French with others. But language was no marker of political loyalties. Her cousins Robert Bruce and his brothers commonly used English, Gaelic, French, Latin too.
But her rescuers must be Scots if they brought her back to Galloway. Relief and hope filled her like fresh air. But she lacked the strength to ask the questions that tumbled through her mind. She recalled little of the escape, though she remembered that Dominy was there, too. She recalled being carried away from the horrible cage, and remembered a rough, cold ridein a cart. And a visit to a church while bells rang out. She remembered some ritual. Last rites? Or had that been a dream?
Most clearly, she recalled the beautiful golden knight: his hand over hers, his soothing voice, his gentle kiss. She had asked his name.Gavin, he had said.Hush,you are safe.
Now the monk laid a hand on her forehead. “Still feverish,” he told Dominy. “Continue to bathe her face and feed her broth and watered wine if she will take it. I will prepare a fresh poultice for her chest.”
“Thank you, Brother Richard,” Dominy answered.
“Dominy, I must tell you that the abbot spoke with your son. We hope for no more incidents as happened in the rectory last evening while we were dining.”
Dominy sighed. “I am sorry. The bowl overturned, and William spoke out too quick.”
“His choice of words horrified the abbot. Swearing is a sin for anyone, but for a child to swear by the—er, backside of our Lord is not fitting. Though some of us found it amusing.” He chuckled as he left the room.
Dominy lifted the blankets and removed the soggy poultice, which smelled strongly of garlic, that lay on Christian’s chest. The lung congestion felt a bit more loose, but every cough was tinged with pain, and she ached with a cloying, heavy need for sleep. She shivered.
“Yer awake, and seem aware, and that’s good,” Dominy said, drawing the blankets up again.
“You have a son?” Christian asked hoarsely.
“Aye. William. Six years old, he is, and thinks he’s a full-grown knight. The men at Carlisle treated him well, but like a soldier. Taught him to roll dice, toss a dagger, and swear with the best of them, alas. Will ye take some broth?” She rested a wide hip on the bedside, helped Christian raise up on pillows, then picked up a bowl and brought a wooden spoon to her lips.
Sipping, Christian swallowed the warm, salty liquid, took a bit more, then shook her head. She had little appetite. What she wanted most was sleep.
“Tired,” she rasped out. “So tired.”
Dominy moved away and sat on a bench. “Sleep, then. I will be just here, do ye need me. Sir Gavin promised to come back again. He sat through the night with ye, and most of the day, but likely ye did not know it, weak as ye’ve been these days.”
Dominy chattered on, and Christian wanted to ask—why would Sir Gavin sit with her? But her eyes drifted shut again.
“She’ll last afew days at most, I fear.”
Lying awake in the darkness, hours later, Christian heard Brother Richard murmuring just beyond the door. His ominous words jarred her to alertness. Opening her eyes, she saw only shadows.
“What else can you do for her?” a man asked. Sir Gavin. She felt a curious thrill run through her at the deep, velvety sound of his voice, his presence. He was still here with her.
“I have given her poultices and broths and healing herbs in wine. She has taken little. There are few treatments successful against a serious lung ailments. She is young, and I presume healthy before this struck her. That is in her favor, but she is still in danger.”
“Dominy says the fever lingers.”
“She has bathed the lady’s head and face with mint water to cool her. That may help. In a day or two I may begin bloodletting to drain the thick humors out of her. But none of it may matter,” the monk said. “Her lungs are filled, and her breathing is fast and shallow. The devil enters with such illnesses and drags upon the soul until it can no longer defend itself. The angels may enter the battle and fight the demons, but only if the girl is without sin.”
“I have heard such medical philosophies before,” Gavin drawled. He sounded wry and bitter.
“Then you know why our herbs often do little against these lung fevers. The devil is in it now. And I understand your concern for her, Sir Gavin.”
“I am very concerned.” Their steps echoed along the stone floor as they moved away.
Tears filled Christian’s eyes. She feared that her body was succumbing to this constant, draining weakness. Had the devil truly entered her soul, as the monk had said? She did not think that was true. English clergy were always such doomsayers, even more than the Scottish priests she knew.
Truly she thought the disease came from being exposed in the horrid cage for weeks in poor weather with little food or warmth. Surely rest, nourishment, time, and the proper treatments would cure her. She had always been healthy and strong, and she was determined to gain that back.
